What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.